


Fatherhood

by ladyknightley



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, weasleys galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 15:49:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14957537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyknightley/pseuds/ladyknightley
Summary: Percy Weasley has a lot of baggage. No, really. That's not a metaphor.





	Fatherhood

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Father's Day!

“Who’s that coming now?”

It’s sort of a rhetorical question: everyone they’re expecting for Sunday lunch has already arrived, barring Percy and Audrey. And, given that The Burrow has security wards which prevent anyone who isn’t on a pre-approved list crossing the boundary (courtesy of some family connections to the Auror Department), it could only really be the two of them.

Well, three, technically. Audrey is carrying baby Molly, who is wrapped up in a hand-knitted blanket (courtesy of her namesake), and beams at them as she walks up the garden path. She looks the picture of maternal bliss, even more so when she’s implored to take a seat, no, honestly, right there, and would she like a drink? Something to snack on? Would she like to put her feet up, rest a while? Everyone else will look after her gorgeous daughter for her, it’s fine (clearly the namesake wins this battle, taking baby Molly from her and immediately snuggling her into her arms with a long-practised sigh of contentment).

“I _said_ , who’s that?” George repeats, undeterred by the lack of enthusiasm for his set up. “Is it Percy, or is it a packhorse?”

If his wife’s load is simply the baby, Percy has: two enormous, overstuffed bags, out of the top of one is flowing several spare babygrows; a carrycot; two towels; a changing mat; a packet of nappies; three stuffed animals; two rattles; what appears to be some kind of mobile, which he’s slung around his neck like it’s a piece of avant-garde jewellery; another handknitted blanket; a muslin cloth over his shoulder, and Audrey’s handbag.

Red faced and sweating, he deposits all of this on the kitchen table. It takes a while, and his brothers watch in grave silence as he does it. When everything is lined up, he nods in satisfaction and turns back to them. “Ah, Harry!” he says, spotting him among the sea of gingers. “Just the man. Did you manage to get that report to Kingsley on Friday?”

“You’ve...um...you’ve got...” Harry gestures to his own left shoulder, and Percy mirrors him.

“Ah, yes,” he says, the pink flush on his cheeks intensifying. “I was wondering where that one had got to.” He removes the muslin cloth and sets it down on top of one of the overstuffed bags, which immediately topples over, spilling its entire contents of baby paraphernalia all over the kitchen floor. There’s a cough, which might be a laugh, from Charlie, and Percy mutters something which just might be a curse word very quietly.

He flicks his wand at it, and everything flies back inside—neatly folded—and the bag rights itself. “So, Harry,” he says, dusting down his trousers. “That report? Only, the Minister wanted to be able to give a full and frank report to the Peruvian embassy by Tuesday, which will only be possible if—”

“I’m sorry, are you planning on moving in?” Ron asks, staring at the pile now covering the kitchen table in horrified fascination.

“Of course not,” Percy says stiffly. “I just like to be prepared. As I was saying, by Tuesday, and then he wants to arrange a meeting with—”

“For what, the apocalypse?” asks George.

Percy takes a deep breath. “For any eventuality,” he says, teeth clearly gritted. “Now, the report must—”

“Yes, I got it to him,” Harry says quickly. “Everything’s all sorted, don’t you worry. So...anyone see the match yesterday? How ’bout them Tornados?!”

Whatever anyone might have thought about the Tornados is lost as one of the bags—the one that hadn’t fallen on the floor—suddenly starts moving from side to side, with what sounds like muffled groaning coming from within. “Uh...guys...” says Charlie, who was closest. “Anyone checked on the Ghoul lately?”

“Bagsie I get to use the highly trained Auror as a shield!” George says, pushing Ron in front of him.

“Oi, Harry’s one as well, you know!” he says indignantly.

“You’re on your own there, mate,” says Harry, eying the bag—which is slowly moving itself to the edge of the table—with some alarm.

“Yes, and besides, I’m less scared of what Hermione’d do to me if I injured you in the line of duty than what Ginny’d do if I injured him in the line of duty,” explains George.

“That’s...pretty reasonable,” puts in Charlie, eying the two of them (and looking like he’s getting ready to dive into the pantry if the bag does start heading in his direction).

Percy digs inside the bag, extracts what is apparently some musical, moving toy (“Who did they get to do the singing, Auntie Muriel?” asks George) and switches it off. His brothers silently watch as he stuffs it back inside the bag (along with three extra babygrows and two books on raising a newborn which had to come out to make room for it).

That done, he dusts off his hands, and turns back to Harry. “ _So._ The Peruvian delegation. The Minister and I have discussed this, and we agree that—”

“That’s it,” Bill says, finally getting to his feet. “We’re staging an intervention.”

“Excellent idea,” says Ron, and he and Charlie grab one of Percy’s arms each and push him into the chair Bill has just vacated.

“Percy, old chap,” says Bill. “ _Look_.” He gestures to the small mountain of stuff Percy has placed on the table. “ _Really look_ at all of this.”

“Yes,” Percy says, with as much dignity as a man can muster when two of his brothers are pinning him down in a chair. “I see. There are one or two things there. However, as a father yourself, I’m sure you of all people understand that it is necessary to always be prepared for any eventuality, especially when—”

“Get him up, lads,” Bill says, then gestures for Ron and Charlie to frogmarch him over to the window. “Look.”

Out in the garden, the Weasley women are still sitting with Audrey and baby Molly. “Look at my wife,” Bill continues. He has his back to George, but still manages to sense that he has opened his mouth at this. “ _Don’t_. Now, on her lap you will see a child. Our child.” Fleur does, it is true, have a firm grip on Victoire, who is absolutely fascinated by the new toy that is her baby cousin. “You will note that, by her feet, there is a bag.” This, too, is true. “A bag that is at least half the size of that one there.”

“A third, I’d say,” Ron puts in.

“In that bag,” Bill says, “there is one spare of everything our daughter wearing.”

“And Mr Flamey,” adds Charlie.

“Who?” asks George.

“Dragon,” says Charlie. “She was showing me, before you got here.”

“Ah.”

“And Mr Flamey the stuffed dragon,” Bill allows. “Now, that is more than I would’ve carried around in my young, unwed days, to be sure. It is not, however, half the contents of our house. We have a toddler: she is capable of running very fast when she wants to, usually into enormous messes. Molly, delightful as she is, cannot even sit up on her own accord. We are all here for Sunday lunch. At most, we will be here for four hours. Why is it, therefore, that you need to bring so much stuff that you could feasibly survive for six months on the moon with no other human contact?”

Percy glares. “Each item has a specific purpose!”

“And they are?”

“Would you like me to go alphabetically, or strategically?”

They’re interrupted, then, by the arrival of Arthur.

“Ah, hello boys,” he says, surveying the scene. “What’s going on here, then?” His cheerful tone is unchanging, but his sons start shifting around awkwardly anyway.

“We’re staging an intervention,” says George as Ron and Charlie quickly drop Percy’s arms.

“An intervention! Excellent. Into what?” their father asks, smiling politely.

“This!” say at least four voices, gesturing at the kitchen table.

“Oh, I see,” he says, affecting to have only just seen the enormous pile. “What is this all for then?”

Percy turns puce. Harry makes himself recite the Aurors Code of Practise, backwards, to keep his face poker straight, but Percy’s brothers are not that kind, and laughter rings out through the kitchen.

“ _Seriously_ , Perce,” says George. “Have some faith in yourself. At most, you’d only get through three babygrows in an hour, and that’s if we have a repeat of The Incident.”

“What’s The Incident?”

“The one where I was babysitting Vic when she was six months old, and I had to change her, only there wasn’t any spare clothes I could find, so I had to wrap her in my shirt, but _then_ —”

“I really don’t think we need to hear this story again, especially when we’re going to be eating in about half an hour.”

“How come _I_ haven’t heard this story?! I’m her father!”

“Okay, but did Audrey ask you to bring all of this?”

“No, really, what’s The Incident? I think I have a right to know”

“...because when she came to Victoire’s birthday party a couple of weeks ago, I saw her—she had a bag smaller than the one Fleur’s got now, and I don’t think—”

“The Incident, guys!”

“Fatherhood,” Percy shouts, “is a very important job and I am going to do it _right_! And if that means being overprepared, then it means being overprepared! If I say we need all of this, we need all of this! And you can all...be quiet!”

Everyone is immediately quiet. This allows for Audrey’s voice to drift through the window, talking about how happy and lucky she feels that, so far, everything has been so straightforward, and that Molly is such a good, easy baby.

Arthur looks at the dark circles under his son’s eyes. He sees his jumper, with its suspicious stain on the left side. He recalls how, at work, Percy’s once plain, totally unadorned office now has photos of baby Molly on every possible surface. And he takes in the mountain of _stuff_ that is currently all over his kitchen table.

“Boys,” he says, “go out there and ask your mother if she needs anything done for dinner. I think we must be nearly ready to think about serving up.” His tone is cheerful and upbeat still, but there is a firmness to it which makes everyone obey, and they shuffle out of the kitchen.

 “Not you, Percy,” he adds quietly. “Come on,” he says, once they’re gone. He picks up two of the bags and tries not to wince at their weight. “Pick this lot up and follow me.” Even with his father’s help, Percy’s still staggering under all the items, but he dutifully follows his father round the side of the garden to his shed.

“Come on,” Arthur says, seeing Percy hesitate. He pushes open the door and gestures to him to follow him inside.

The shed has always been Dad’s space, all of the Weasley children knew that almost from birth. You did not go inside without express permission—and once you were inside, no matter how tempted you were, you did not touch _anything_. As far back as any of them could remember, every single shelf was covered with incredibly tempting _stuff_ —mostly muggle items, a few of them useful, many of them not. From his prized possession (a working car battery) to the tiniest trinkets, everything had its place.

And it wasn’t just Dad’s junk, either—genuinely useful things (the toilet plunger, forty-six different screwdrivers, instruction manuals for devices long broken, the Christmas decorations) were kept in there, but woe betide anyone who went in even in the most genuine emergency to get something without permission. The shed was overstuffed (magic, Percy allowed, probably helped here) and every surface was always covered with something, but Dad could always lay his hands on the most esoteric items in a heartbeat.

Today is no different, except for the fact that one shelf, on the far wall, is completely empty. In this always packed room, it stands out like a sore thumb. “Now then,” says Dad, “I’ve cleared a space.” He nods towards the empty shelf as though it’s perfectly normal, and not the first time in Percy’s life he’s seen the bare wood.

“What for?”

“I assume you have doubles of everything at home?” Dad asks, gesturing towards Percy’s many bags.

He nods.

“Excellent,” Dad says, smiling. “So, what I suggest is that you leave everything here. That way, whenever you come here, you don’t have to worry about packing everything up, you can just bring the baby and go. You don’t need to worry about bringing the kitchen sink, eh? All your bits and bobs already here, and a load of your mind, yes?”

“But...”

“Come on, look, I’ve cleared you a shelf! Let’s see, if we put that carrycot at the far end, then we can stack some of the smaller items inside of it. How does that sound?”

“That sounds...good,” Percy says. He gives his father a tentative smile. “And...and maybe just three changes of outfit will be enough to keep here. I’ll take the rest back with me.”

“Better make it four, just to be on the safe side,” Dad says cheerfully.

They set to, getting everything stacked up on the shelf and leaving a small pile over by the door for Percy to take back home with him. It’s the work of mere moments, and everything is neatly placed almost before he realises. The shelf is full again, only this time with baby things, and not hardware.

“Excellent,” Dad says, slapping him on the back. “All done. Now, d’you reckon we can go and chivvy the others into producing some food? I’m quite hungry after all that.”

“Okay then,” Percy says. “Wait...Dad...the shelf...how did...?”

“Oh, I cleared it off when I say you coming,” says Dad. “I thought you might need a space for little Molly’s stuff, so I got it ready for you. What was it you said? Being a good father is about being prepared, right?”

“Dad...” Percy says, sounding a little choked up. “You don’t need to take lessons from _anyone_ on being a good father, least of all me.”

“Who said anything about any lessons?” Dad says mildly. “It’s just being practical. And prepared.”

“Two key Dad skills,” Percy acknowledges.

“Well, yes,” says Arthur. “And ones you have in spades! Isn’t little Molly lucky?”

Percy grins. “She is,” he says. He steers his Dad towards the door. “Me, too.”


End file.
